


Workplace ethics

by snarled_musings



Category: Person Of Interest - Fandom
Genre: First Time, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 14:03:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarled_musings/pseuds/snarled_musings





	Workplace ethics

Fandom: Person Of Interest  
Pairing: John Reese/Harold Finch  
Rating: M (just to be on the safe side, but it's not explicit)  
Spoilers: S1, ep 16-18  
A/N: POI is my latest obssesion. I'm really not sure about their voices, but I have to start writing these two. They're just made for each other...  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


”Mr. Reese, are you busy?”  
  


”Always, Finch, but I can find some time. Another number come up?” John found himself smiling as the familiar formal voice spoke through his earpiece. The movement felt a bit unfamiliar still. It had been a long time since he'd last had anything to smile about.  
  


“The machine never rests, Mr. Reese. If you'd be so kind?”  
  


John gave a small laugh. “I'll see you in ten, Finch.” He put his helmet back on and started his bike. Its sleek strength still had him in awe; he absolutely loved his bike. There had been no particular reason for Finch to buy it for him, ofter than the older man thinking it might be “convenient transportation” for John. Of course it was, but it was also such a lavish gift in and of itself.  
  


It had taken a _long_ time for John to get used to all the comforts Finch offered him. He had a roof over his head, money, a _really_ nice wardrobe and an arsenal that would make any mobster salivate in greed. Finch still got that twitch just below his left eye every time John opened the cabinet. The awful thing was John found it kind of adorable. He still wasn't sure he deserved all the things he had. He was supposed to be doing penance for his sins. Instead he found himself actually enjoying his work; making a difference, trying to make the city safer. Maybe he should buy a cape. On the other hand his suit had become sort of a uniform or a costume in his mind. Dressed as he was today, in jeans and his motorcycle jacket, he actually felt under-dressed. Luckily he had a change of clothes at the library.  
  


As he bounded up the stairs to the library his heart skipped a beat. It had been doing that a lot lately; it was a bit disturbing. Finch just had him filled with so much emotions, many of them conflicting. He gave a crooked smile as he saw the familiar figure staring at his screens. Finch turned as he heard John approach, twisting his upper body to watch the younger man. John's smile widened slightly as he saw Finch's tie. It was a deep green, with bright yellow spots. It should look ridiculous, but the bespectacled man pulled it off. Finch could pull practically anything off, it was one of the main reasons John admired him deeply. Finch refused to let anything stop him, no matter what it may cost him. The fact that John was part of it, almost an extension of Finch, made him feel like he belonged to something bigger. Something better; like he mattered.  
  


Finch pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “How was our friend Mr. Saunders?”  
  


“Adam's a good kid, and his uncle's a good man. They've fixed the warehouse up.”  
  


“And your friend Joan?”  
  


John's smile grew a little bit more stiff. “She's fine. She's working for Bob, doing odd jobs for now.” John still wasn't sure how to deal with that particular issue. Finch knew of his deep gratitude for giving him a meaning in life again, a purpose. Even if he didn't express it often enough. John wasn't much for talking about his feelings; didn't like baring himself. He trusted Finch with his life, but lately he'd begun to slowly accept that he trusted Finch with his heart. Or rather that he wanted to do so. It didn't sit entirely well with John. He'd loved Jessica with all his heart, wanting to keep her safe and happy. It had been dawning on him that he felt akin to that for Finch lately. It was not something he'd ever intended to let Finch know, but he'd slipped up when talking to Joan. He'd momentarily forgotten about their com link being open when he admitted he'd found someone new to care for him. The moment the words were out his mouth he wanted to take them back. The words weren't incriminating by themselves, but his soft tone of voice gave him away. The way Joan had smiled at him let him know that he'd shown his hand. If she'd caught it, then there was no way in hell Finch hadn't. But the older man hadn't mentioned it at all and John started hoping Finch hadn't been listening in. Now his hopes were doused by Finch's intent gaze, and John felt his face start to heat up. He hated the way he sometimes couldn't control his physical responses around Finch. Finch cleared his throat.  
  


“I do, you know.”  
  


“You do what, Finch?” John found himself looking at a point just above Finch's right ear, unable to meet his eyes.  
  


“Care for you, and I'm honored that you recognized it to someone. Thank you.” Finch's voice was soft, almost intimate. John felt the blush wash over his face and fought the urge to squirm.  
  


“No need to thank _me_ , Finch. I mean it; let's not talk about it. What about this new number?” Emotions flitted across Finch's face, too fast for John to follow. A moment later he turned to his screen and started rattling off information about Denise Evans, a twenty-something social worker.  
  


* * *  
  


Ms. Evans really needed to get better at judging people. On the other hand, maybe he did too, he thought ruefully as he touched his left cheek bone.  
  


“You there, Finch?”  
  


“I am indeed. I trust everything went well?”  
  


“Ms. Evans is safe. I left her assailant in the hands of Fusco, so this should be all over.”  
  


“Are you all right, Mr. Reese?” John found he could even sound rueful when he chuckled.  
  


“Yeah, I'm fine, I'm just glad she hit like a girl. The bruise would be much bigger otherwise.”  
  


Finch couldn't contain a snort of amusement. “She is a girl, John. I wish I could have seen your face.”  
  


A warm glow spread in the pit of his stomach at Finch's use of his first name. It was such a rare occasion; it made him think of them as friends, not just associates. “I imagined she'd choose to trust me over Ronson any day. I was wrong, and my face paid for it.” This time Harold laughed openly, and John found himself grinning as he got in the car. It was almost worth the bruise to hear Harold laugh like that. His grin froze on his face. _Finch,_ not Harold. He couldn't let his brain blur that line, because his heart would erase what would be left of it and John would be lost. He gritted his teeth, annoyed with himself. Of all the stupid things he'd done in his life, falling for his employer might be one of the most stupid. At least he didn't get a sexual identity crisis out of it. He hadn't been in love with another man before, but John firmly believed that he was attracted to a person, not a sex. Harold, Finch, seemed to prove his theory.  
  


“Will you be heading over here, John?” So Finch was still stuck on first-name basis. It wasn't good for John's mental health. It made something in his gut clench, made him want to be more than even friends. He shoved that train of thought firmly away from his mind. There was way too much at stake to even allow himself to dream about it.  
  


“Anything come up?”  
  


“Just a new number.” John quenched a sigh. He wished for a slow day, just once.  
  


* * *  
  


When Finch said he'd done something rash, he really wasn't kidding. John couldn't stop his mouth from dropping open as he watched the baby in the impromptu pen. He knew nothing about kids, and he couldn't imagine Finch having any more experience. Somehow they managed to pull it off, mostly. John balked a bit when Finch held the baby carrier for him to put on. It didn't seem right, to be carrying both a gun and a baby.  
  


“I need you to carry her, John. My back's not at its best today, I'm afraid. Leila kept me up half the night and I fell asleep at the desk.” Finch turned away, looking almost abashed. It really wasn't fair to give that look _and_ use his first name. It just made him feel protective; made him want to take care of Finch. Gingerly he put on the carrier. It looked incongruous against his suit and coat. He took Leila and gently fitted her into the carrier; when she was in place he couldn't resist placing a quick kiss on the top of her head. She gurgled happily; when he looked at Finch he looked suspiciously misty-eyed. There was a softness to his eyes, his face, that John hadn't seen before. It startled him. He'd never even considered that Finch might want kids, that he might have had a family. All he had was the annoyingly sparse tidbits of personal information Finch chose to feed him. But he took them and cherished them for what they were, badges of the trust Finch was willing to place in him.  
  


“She likes you, Mr. Reese.” Ah, it was time to distance them. Lately John had begun wondering about the dance Finch was doing with him. He let John in, drew him closer, only to shy away and put them back in their professional relationship. It left John imbalanced, off-kilter. He wanted them to be closer; hell, he wanted them to be inseparable. Whenever Finch called him “John”, dropped his formality, John felt his hopes rise that they might end up where he wanted. That Finch reciprocated his feelings. Then he was put back firmly in his place as Finch raised his barriers again. There was so much John wanted to know, but he had no right asking the questions. He'd even stopped following Finch, apart from when he was exceptionally bored. Those times he did it just to be close to the other man, make sure he was safe.  
  


“Do you have to sound so surprised?” He stroked the downy hair gently. “Leila's a good baby, I think she'd like anyone.”  
  


“That's not true. Babies are very intuitive. They can sense who wants them harm, and who to trust. She knows you have a good heart.” John swallowed hard, feeling his throat constrict.  
  


“Then she's not intuitive enough, Finch. I'm not a good man.”  
  


“Ah, but you are, Mr. Reese. Why are you risking you life for a strange baby otherwise?”  
  


_Because you asked me to._ The thought rang in his head, echoing in his mind like a bell. It wasn't the complete truth, but it was a big part of it. Finch continued: “You are a good man, John, a good man that's made some bad choices. You're trying to repay your debts, trying to balance the scales. That's a good man in my books.” He stroked Leila's cheek, which made him stand oh, so close to John. He could smell the shorter man's cologne, could feel his breath ghost against his wrist as he reached up to stroke Leila's head again. It took all John's will power not to lean into the touch not meant for him. He took a small step back, putting some distance between them. That made him reflect on how the boundaries of personal space had been removed between them. Finch didn't flinch any longer if John rested a hand on his shoulder while looking at the screen, nor did John react if Finch adjusted the lapels of his shirt or coat. They'd become comfortable around each other. That was probably how John's emotions had been able to surface. Maybe he was just starved for physical contact. Maybe he wasn't falling in love with his employer. He gave a crooked smile. He wasn't about to start lying to himself now. But his emotions notwithstanding, he wouldn't act on it. He didn't want to make Finch uncomfortable and damage the relationship they had. He got into the car and they headed off to meet up with Carter.  
  


Seeing the look on Carter's face as he got out of the car with Leila strapped to his chest was worth any discomfort he might have been feeling. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.  
  


* * *  


The wave of relief washing over him when he heard Fusco had Finch nearly made his knees go weak. Hearing Harold all loopy and out of it raised a curtain of red in front of his eyes. The rage flowing through him was primal. Someone had hurt Harold, his Finch, stripped him of his control. It made John's jaw clench in fury. Control was everything to Harold, to take that from him was to strike where it hurt the most. Nobody was allowed to make Harold vulnerable. John would do anything to keep him safe. Luckily he had the means to make it happen; he'd easily take Tara down. He just had to trust Fusco to babysit Harold a bit longer, before heading over there himself.  
  


The take-down was quick and easy. He almost wished he would've been forced to fight someone. Strike that, he was itching to lash out at someone. The thought of someone drugging Harold nearly made him insane. He didn't even dare to dwell on what could have happened. Fusco'd told him about the microwave; knowing how close Harold had been to a disaster made him break into a cold sweat. He got back to the library in record time, probably breaking every traffic law and speeding limit known to man. He only stopped to pick up some bottled water. Harold was going to need it to flush the drugs out of his system. As he rushed up to the library he found Harold staring at his book cases. He seemed a little bit calmer. John tossed him the water and a blanket.  
  


“Aren't you going to stay? Don't you want to talk?” Oh god, did he ever. But not now, with Harold in this state. Nor could he let Harold talk to him. He could not take advantage like that; he'd never be able to look himself in the mirror again. “Ask me anything!” If he'd ever gotten a more tempting offer he couldn't recall it at that moment. He'd gotten all the knowledge he could ever wish for served on a silver platter.  
  


“Good night, Harold.” Turning away was the hardest thing he'd ever done, not that he really could turn away. Instead he kind of hovered for the rest of the night, making sure Harold was okay. And damn it, it was Harold in his mind now. He was so screwed. He took the thousandth round for the night, at least it felt like that. Harold had tossed and turned a lot. A fine sheen of sweat covered his face. When John touched his shoulder he felt that it was soaked with sweat as well. For a second he toyed with the idea of undressing the smaller man. His fingers itched to do it, but then he pictured Harold's face when the other man woke up in the morning. He decided to take the middle road instead; he removed Harold's vest and tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. Harold made a small sound and actually _cuddled_ John's hand. His eyes were still closed as he nuzzled John's wrist; his tongue darted out and licked at it. John's breath caught in his throat, he was frozen all over. He should just turn away, but Harold wrapped strong fingers around his wrist, clamping down on him. John sank to his knees next to the couch, drawing shaky breaths as he tried to gently pry himself loose. His heart was hammering in his chest as Harold's eyes opened. He gave an open, easy smile as he saw John. Their faces were at the same height and John found himself staring, drowning, in Harold's eyes. He might be called Finch, but at that moment John had no illusion that he was the predator and John the prey. Even if Harold wasn't fully aware of it at the moment. The older man made a small, content sound and leaned forward to press his lips against John's. His brain shut down momentarily; his lips parted in astonishment and Harold's tongue immediately darted in to taste John. The shock of it jolted him into action and he threw himself backwards. Harold reached for him drowsily, then he collapsed back on the couch and promptly fell asleep. John stayed where he was, flat on his ass on the floor. He was panting, it felt like he'd run a marathon. He wanted nothing more than to wake Harold up, to kiss him senseless. He frantically went through what he knew about Ecstasy. Sure, it lowered inhibitions, altered the mind, but didn't the impulses have to be there to begin with for the user to act on them? Most likely that was just his wishful thinking. Finch had no idea what the hell he was doing. He pressed his hand hard against his groin and snarled. He was so hard it hurt from just that small taste of Harold. It was just so monumentally unfair, to let him have that infinitesimal taste, which wasn't exactly freely given. He cursed Tara, the universe, Harold for being so gullible on occasion. He clambered to his feet awkwardly, erection digging into his zipper. With another snarl he went to change into his running gear. He had to get rid of his frustration and excess energy. He almost hoped someone would start a fight with him. He was just itching to kick some ass.  
  


* * *  
  


He awoke from a dream about Harold, aware that he was hard again. It had been ages since he'd even been aroused, now he was sporting wood at inopportune times like a god damn teen. It really didn't improve his foul mood. He heard familiar steps drawing closer.  _If there is a god, please let the drugs be flushed out of his system. And please don't let him remember what he did._ John closed his eyes again, trying to will away his erection. It didn't work, his mind was still filled with images of a naked Harold doing things he blushed to even admit to fantasizing of. He groaned and rolled over on his stomach to hide his embarrassing state.  
  


“Mr. Reese, I brought you coffee. It's the least I could do to thank you.” Harold's face was rosy, the beginnings of a blush staining his cheeks. “I'm so sorry for forcing you to put up with me last night.”  
  


“You didn't force me, Harold. I stayed of my own volition, I wanted to know you were okay. After all, it's not your everyday-thing to dabble with illegal substances.” His voice was rough, scratchy. He hoped he hadn't been making any sounds in his sleep. Harold looked a bit startled at the use of his first name. “How are you feeling?”  
  


“Much better. I do believe the trip's over. Isn't that the right expression?” John couldn't help it, he gave a sharp bark of unexpected laughter.  
  


“Yeah, that's it. And you were pretty well out of it last night. Actually, now that I know you're fine, parts of it were kind of amusing.” Parts of it were arousing as nobody's business, and confusing him more than he should allow it to. He was filled with conflicting thoughts again. He was relieved Harold was okay, touched over his gesture of gratitude. He wanted to spare Harold any further embarrassment, but he was dying to ask if he remembered what he'd done. If he meant anything with it or if it was just a drugged impulse. But if he did and Harold didn't remember, the John's hand would be forced. John would have to tell him about the kiss, and if he did he wouldn't be able to hide the way it had affected him. Which would lead to embarrassment, loss of trust and ultimately to John being back out on the streets. Without a purpose. Without friends. Without Harold. He took the coffee cup from Harold and took a sip. His hands were trembling slightly; at least the rush of anxiety had effectively curbed all his lusty thoughts. He could sit up without shaming himself, which meant he could get dressed. Usually he was comfortable in his own skin, but now he was painfully aware that all he wore were his yoga pants. He felt like he was putting himself on display for a less than enthusiastic audience. His job was to blend in, not to stick out. He grabbed his shirt and slacks; for a moment he thought about leaving the room to change. But that would signal beyond doubt that something was wrong. He compromised with himself and turned his back to Harold as he stepped out of the yoga pants to pull on his slacks. As he did so he threw a look over his shoulder to speak to his employer. The words died on his tongue as he caught the look on Harold's face. There was a pure hunger, mixed with lust and longing, etched on his features. It seemed John was destined to be left breathless around his boss. He froze for an instant, before hastily throwing on his shirt and suit jacket.  
  


“I... I have to go. I have to...” He couldn't come up with a plausible lie, he simply turned on his heel and fled. Obviously Harold hadn't flushed the drugs completely, there was no way he'd look at John like that otherwise. And there was no way John could stay without taking advantage. Not when Harold looked at him like that. He left at close to a run, snagging his gun on the way out. He'd only just buttoned his shirt when he threw the door open and hit the street. If there was any justice in the world he'd find someone to shoot in the kneecaps today. He needed to vent.  
  


It had been quiet for hours. No trouble arose, no new number had come up. Harold would have called him in otherwise. He'd checked in with both Fusco and Carter, neither of which needed his assistance. What the hell was he supposed to do? He couldn't head back to the library, not until he'd gotten his game face in place. He was too vulnerable, too raw, to see Harold, Finch, right now. He dropped into a small cafe and ordered a coffee. The guy at the table next to him was drinking the green tea Finch favored. John could tell easily by the smell. He clenched his jaw and resisted the impulse to reach over and grab the damn tea cup, smash it against the floor. The guy looked up and met his eyes. His eyes widened slightly in alarm and John realized he probably looked murderous. He forced his jaw to relax and tried to give a smile. Judging by how the guy inched away slightly it was less than successful. John gulped his coffee down, gave an apologetic shrug and left. Maybe he should just kneecap himself. At least he'd be out for the count for a while, with a good excuse. Maybe that was what he needed, time to get his head straight.  
  


“Mr. Reese... John. I do believe we need to talk.” The voice in his ear was stiff, uncomfortable. It made John realize how much Finch had changed his attitude towards him; this was the way Finch had spoken in the beginning of their partnership. It hurt him to be spoken to like that again. He'd fucked up royally. He shoved his hands in his pockets and just started walking blindly.  
  


“There's nothing to talk about, Finch. Look, I didn't mean for you to feel uncomfortable. It's nothing to worry about, I've got it under control. It won't affect us working together. Anything come up?”  
  


“No, there's no new number. What are you talking about, John? I feel I owe you a rather large apology for my behavior this morning, and I'm glad you won't hold it against me, but this isn't about something you can control. Is it?” Even over the com Finch's confusion was loud and clear. John stopped just before he stepped out in front of a car. He really needed to get his head back straight, or he'd end like roadkill. Which would be a rather humiliating way to die, considering what he did for a living. Nothing even remotely heroic about that. He stood staring unseeingly out over the street, long enough that he started as Finch asked: “Are you there?” And there he almost stepped out into oncoming traffic again. Maybe Finch was watching him, trying to get him killed. At least he wouldn't have to die of shame, which he thought was a real possibility the next time he saw Finch.  
  


“Of course it's something I can control!”  
  


“But... how are you supposed to control _my feelings_?” That had John frozen in his tracks abruptly enough that someone bumped into him. Reflexes nearly took over, John was seconds away from killing some poor idiot, and he _really_ couldn't afford to be this distracted. It would spell disaster for a lot of innocent bystanders. “Please come back here so we can talk. Please, John.” Harold rarely said please, and never in that tone of voice. John stalked back the way he'd come, cursing his Pavlovian response to certain traits of Harold's. He should just go into hiding until he'd gotten a lobotomy, and the problem would be solved.  
  


“I'm on my way, see you soon.” He terminated the call before Finch could say anything else, before he could find a reason to chicken out. He debated with himself what to say the entire way back. It seemed to take a lot less time to get there than usual. He prayed that a number had come up, anything that could make him postpone this conversation. Harold had promised to never lie to him, he could show Harold no less than the same courtesy. That left him with no alternative than to confess his own confused feelings. He squared his jaw. There was no way this wouldn't end badly. He moseyed up the stairs, heart fluttering in his chest. His palms were sweating. All that was missing was that he'd have to draw his gun at this moment. There was no way he wouldn't drop it, or shoot himself in the foot. Maybe he still had a chance to kneecap himself.  
  


Harold was standing in close to the exact same spot John had found him last night. He twisted around to look at John, who stopped and leaned against the door frame. He kept his hands shoved in his pockets. He didn't want Harold to see how badly they were shaking. “I'm here.”  
  


“Thank you.” The silence stretched between them, awkward and uncomfortable. They started talking at the same time: “Finch, look...” “John, I'm sorry...” Both of them grew silent. John gestured for Finch to begin talking. The older man squared his shoulders, a small grimace of discomfort crossing his features.  
  


“John, I am sorry beyond words if I made you uncomfortable this morning. I believe the drugs had me acting rather strangely last night. I had rather strange dreams, and I believe they might have bled into my behavior this morning. It was inappropriate, more than inappropriate, and I hope you can overlook it. I... I really don't want to lose you, John.” John's heart swelled, his throat closed.  
  


“I don't think you can do anything to get rid of me. What did you dream?” His voice softened, grew more intimate without him intending it. Harold blushed a deep scarlet.  
  


“I'd rather not go into the details, if it's all the same. It's quite... personal. And possibly very disconcerting to you.”  
  


“Did it involve me?” He didn't think Harold could blush deeper, but he was proven wrong. Harold's eyes were locked on a point just beyond his shoulder.  
  


“Yes.”  
  


“What were we up to?” His voice was barely above a whisper; his heart threatened to burst out of his chest. It seemed the look he'd gotten this morning wasn't drug-induced. This might really happen if he just dared to take that step. “Was it anything like this?” He swallowed hard before closing the distance between them. Gently he touched Harold's shoulders, leaning in to place their lips together in a chaste kiss. He kept his lips soft and closed, just a question. Harold stood frozen, before he made a strange sound deep in his throat and grabbed John's coat. He stretched up slightly, crushing his lips against John's, forcing the taller man's mouth open. The ferocity took John by surprise; he gave a soft groan and let Harold in. He tasted mint, Sencha tea, and essence of Harold; it was enough to make his head spin. The Harold abruptly pushed him away and staggered back. His pupils were dilated, eyes wide behind his glassed.  
  


“I can't do this, Mr. Reese. It's not right! I'm so sorry...” John stared at him in disbelieved horror. Had Harold really tried to give himself to John, to bite the metaphorical bullet for him, out of some twisted sense of duty?  
  


“Oh god...” He was nauseous, filled with loathing. Harold had tried to do this for him, felt he owed this to John even though it obviously went against his very nature. He'd nearly used Harold sexually, abused him. He swallowed down bile, blinked hard to push away tears of self-loathing rage. He turned, stumbled gracelessly away from the library, away from Harold.  
  


“John, please! I'm so sorry, I never meant to take advantage of you! Oh lord, tell me there's something I can do to make you forgive me for forcing this on you.” Harold's words seared his brain, confusion burning through him. He blinked, aware that a tear had escaped him and trailed down his cheek. He brushed angrily at it as he turned.  
  


“What are you talking about? I shouldn't have kissed you; you don't owe me everything. I owe you everything. You've given me my life back. You've given me all the comforts I could dream of; you've given me purpose, you've given my life meaning again. You've given me your friendship. I can never repay you, and still I forced my feelings on you. I'm good at compartmentalizing; you know I can deal with this...” Harold's hand over his mouth shut him up abruptly. Harold had never done anything like that before. He stilled, wide-eyed and mute.  
  


“You owe me nothing, Mr. Reese. You've deserved everything I've given you. You've let me use you as an extension of myself, you've done everything I've asked of you, and more than that. But I can't let you do this, I can't let you force my attraction on you. I cannot bear to let you give yourself that way. It's coercion, and I cannot hurt you that way. I will not use you that way, knowing you do it out of a warped sense of gratitude.” John reached up slowly and gently removed Harold's hand from his mouth. His mind was spinning insanely, whirling as he tried to make sense of what Harold had just told him.  
  


“I... I don't understand. I shouldn't have kissed you, but I... had a weak moment. But it sounds to me like you think you've done something wrong. You've done nothing that I won't welcome if you want it as well. I'm starting to think we've got a serious case of miss-communication here.” He felt that flicker of hope burn more brightly in his chest. Who dares wins, and all that nonsense. “I think of you as more than my employer, you know I count you as my friend. But I'd like to think of you as more than that.”  
  


“Are you saying you _wanted_ to kiss me?”  
  


“Yes, of course I did, but I thought you were still under the influence. You kissed me last night.”  
  


“I did?” Harold pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. The nervous gesture was endearing.  
  


“You did. I stopped it before it... we... got out of hand.”  
  


“So if I kissed you now, would we be... getting out of hand?” Harold looked at him almost beseechingly. Again John could see that naked longing. That it really was directed at him made his heart speed up. He had to swallow hard and clear his throat. His voice was slightly raspy as he answered.  
  


“We most certainly would. It seems that's it would be in both our interests to do just that.” Just like that the world had tilted back. They were back in their familiar banter, doing the dance they both knew the steps of so well. This time the stakes were higher than ever, but for the first time John felt like it wasn't a risk. He took a step towards Harold. Harold mirrored him, then he simply closed the distance and grabbed John. Firm lips devoured John, who groaned and let Harold lead. He'd never imagined that his Finch would be this forceful, but he would enjoy every second of this ride. Harold's hands had already pushed his jacket off his shoulders and were now busying themselves with John's shirt. He'd never known Harold was _that_ deft; before he could finish the thought those hands pushed him back against the wall and teeth were nipping along his jaw, moving down to his clavicle. John's head made a dull thunk as it hit the wall behind him.  
  


“Oh god, nngh, where have you... nnh, where have you learned to do this?” John couldn't breathe properly, much less form coherent thoughts. Without doubt he'd have a huge hickey below his clavicle. The idea of Harold marking him made him grow completely hard so fast it hurt. His hips moved of their own volition, grinding against Harold's hip. Harold made a deep sound low in his chest, almost a growl; the noise drew a moan from John. He reached out blindly, his eyes closed, and found Harold's shoulders. He wanted to reciprocate, but Harold's mouth and fingers had him spellbound. Cool air his his bare chest as his shirt was removed, then a warm mouth closed over his nipple. John forced his eyes to open as he made a needy sound. Harold rolled his eyes to meet John's gaze and John had to bite his lip to keep from coming in his pants. “If you keep this up I'll... it'll be over before the main event.”  
  


“You are the main event, Mr. Reese.” Harold's lips quirked in a small smile.  
  


“Really, Finch? I feel more like the main course.” His own smirk matched Harold's, which broadened as he slowly sank to his knees in front of John. “Finch, what are you doing? Isn't that painful?” Harold mumbled something suspiciously sounding like “Well worth it” as he unbuttoned and unzipped John's pants. John's head fell back against the wall again as he gasped. In no time his pants were pooled around his ankles, he was practically naked. Harold was still fully dressed; it should make him feel vulnerable. Or possibly ridiculous. Instead there was a vague sense of relief, that he'd finally bared himself to Harold in every way. Then he felt Harold's mouth engulf him and a harsh cry tore from his throat. His knees threatened to buckle, but Harold grasped his hips. Blunt nails dug into his hip bones, the slight pain anchoring him. His heart hammered as he gave a shaky groan. He was trembling; Harold's hand reached up to caress the skin low on his abdomen. His muscles clenched and Harold made an appreciative sound. The vibrations of that sound made John's toes curl. White heat coiled through his spine as he rested his hands gently on Harold's head. Harold pulled back slightly to look up at John with a slight smile curling the corners of his mouth up. Seeing Harold like that, still fully dressed, on his knees with John's cock in his mouth and that small smile, tipped John over the edge. A noise of almost pain escaped him as he came hard. His entire body shuddered as his hips pumped into Harold's mouth, and the older man swallowed him down with a noise of pleasure. Spent, John sagged back against the wall. He was panting, shaking, sweating. He was a complete mess, and he'd never felt better, more alive. Harold cleared his throat discreetly, but his voice was still slightly hoarse when he spoke.  
  


“Give me a hand, Mr. Reese? I believe we might benefit of moving this to a more comfortable location. Like a bed, possibly?”  
  


“Let's take a detour and use the shower first. Being on your knees like that must have made you stiff.”  
  


“Oh, you have no idea, but you might give me a hand with that.” That quick smile again, and John was grinning as he gently pulled Harold to his feet and led the way to the bathroom. 


End file.
